Young Writers Society

Oft times we exchange our lives for expressways,
And every thought hits like a speeding car,
And into mere moments become a hundred days,
As we leave burnt tracks on greying tar.

And we would cross roads at the crossroads,
And once halfway through, pause in mild suspension,
And we seek death as we yearn to get accross,
Suspended on the Styx, on the boat of Charon.

And perhaps greater shall be your suspension,
If to purge the pain within your passion,
I let this verse not fruitless be,
When I end it all so suddenly.